


Hurricane

by MoonkistPrincess (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aromantic, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MoonkistPrincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was an author, you think, that expressed everything perfectly about Jane Crocker-</p><p>“If people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [revolutionator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionator/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by tumblr user revolutionator. She commented that she could see Dirk and Jane having a unique, sweet, and special relationship as aromantic best friends. I wrote that. Vec, however, provided the dialog in her original thoughts post, and I used that.

It is cold, it is dark, and you are happy because you are sharing this cold darkness with Jane Crocker.

When she had phoned you up and asked you over, you had feigned disinterest, you had paused a moment to consider your options and schedule- but both of you knew that the only reason she was asking, and not telling, was simply because of her manners and courteous disposition. You would do anything for her. So would Jake, and Roxy especially. None of you would even hesitate to be at her side at the doff of a battered fedora. Jane Crocker only had the best of best friends, and it was that elite status you all shared that kept you from outright fighting over her.

So it was not that you could not enjoy these Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? reruns in the comfort of your room, it was that you could not enjoy them without her. Sure, it didn’t take thirty minutes for heat to get to your bedroom, and yes, you have to admit that you could have listened to this shitty show in higher and better quality volume, at home in your room. But sitting there, bathed in the blue-white light of a slightly retro television screen, in Jane’s living room on the couch under a worn-out red fleece blanket, was nice.

No, more than nice. It was unparalleled.

Her head was tilted, and the edges of her hard glasses dug into the rounds of your shoulder, so you knew it was late at night. Jane went to bed at semi-decent hours, and you knew she would be tired out by now. Your arm went around her shoulders, and when you squeezed it gently to test the temperature of her upper body and her conciousness levels, she let out a sigh and closed her eyes.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind so much, if I married a man with a Foxworthy moustache.”

You would smile if that was your thing. It’s not, so you don’t, but you hope she hears the smile you would make if it were, in fact, your thing. She has this habit of drifting off into other thoughts that don’t relate at all to the current activity, and you like that because it keeps you on your toes. You’re ready for anything, with her.

“It’s a good ‘stache.” You comment, because it is.

“Maybe I’ll grow one someday.” You comment, because you might.

She laughs a little and shakes her head in the slightest, and she sits up. Her head is off your shoulder and when you feel her looking at you, you look back. She catches the light from the television on your shades, but it seems like she’s looking right into your eyes. How does she do that? How does one girl look through you so wholly, how does one girl take everything you feel and think and believe and all the science and laws and numbers that you love so much, and twist them into a jumble of unexplainable, unsolvable feelings?

When you’re pondering this, you’re also leaning. She’s leaning, and when your noses bump, you both pull back and she laughs while you grimace. It is a mutual decision, a silent agreement, that this is not who you are- either of you. She is not the person you want to kiss and you are not the person she wants to kiss back, and that’s okay. You know it’s okay because she gets her head back on your shoulder and you discuss the fashion sense of (or lack thereof) the girl with the plaid headband who keeps fucking up.

And when you talk, you know that what you say is long-winded and stupid and a little weird. At least, everyone else says it is- but Jane doesn’t ever, not once, seem riled by your words. You can preach about irony, all the ladders and levels and layers, you can use the most extensive ass metaphors, you can use adjectives reserved for smutty paperback romance novels or fanfiction.net archives, you can spout rap and poetry alike- and she does not falter. She just overlooks all the quirks people find strange. She is totally and genuinely _completely unperturbed_ by your strangeness, by your complete seriousness and pokerface. She bypasses everything people stare at in you, and you love that.

And you love her. You love Jane. And she loves you. And even when you pick her warm, sleeping body up under the knees and carry her like the Heiress she is, tucking her into bed, you don’t feel any desire to kiss her. You don’t want to do anything but make sure every day she lives, she is happy, safe, and well-loved. You sit down next to her sleeping form, and take her glasses off, folding them and setting them gently aside. You know she will be upset if you leave without saying goodbye, so you do have to wake her, but gently.

“Jane.” you lay a hand on her shoulder and she wakes only when you shake it, and she looks up at you with this dazed smile. You think about how bright that smile is, how much it warms your heart, and you keep talking. “I’m going back home. I had fun.”

“Mmmm, sorry I—”

“Shhh, only fifth grade questions now.”

She giggles this sleepy giggle that melts you. You want to preserve it and put it in a jar and never let anyone but Jake and Roxy hear it.

“Night Jane.”

“Night Dork.”

You let her have that one, and when you leave, you notice the clouds gather and rain threaten. There was an author, you think, that expressed everything perfectly about Jane Crocker-

_“If people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.”_

It is cold, it is dark, and you are happy, because you got to share that cold darkness with Jane Crocker.


End file.
